


Bump

by Skyzuki



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 00:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15473112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyzuki/pseuds/Skyzuki
Summary: She starts the letter a dozen times before she finds the courage to see it through.





	Bump

**Author's Note:**

> Hewwo!!!
> 
> This is not great, but its been sitting in my drafts since last November, so I just needed to finish it and get it up.

She starts the letter a dozen times before she finds the courage to see it through.

_“Aveline,_

_My oldest friend, you know I would not ask anything of you unless it were a matter of life or death. I have caused you enough strife, and I regret having to send this letter._

_I am with child._

_Though this may have been a blessing at another time, I cannot bring myself to allow an infant to be born into a world of bloodshed and uncertainty._

_Even if you find yourself unable to raise the child firsthand, I trust that it will be safe with your guidance. My only wish is that it remains out of harm’s way and is loved by whoever cares for them. My only concern is the child’s wellbeing._

_I hope this letter finds you in good health, my friend._

_-H”_

_*_

They have broken off from the rebel mages, as they tend to do when the risk of discovery grows too high for them to safely travel with the group. Given a few days, they’ll rendezvous yet again and set back on their course.

The fire is delightfully warm in contrast to the chilly air of the Vimmark mountains.

It has been less than a year since Kirkwall fell to their mistakes and they were forced to leave their home; therefore, they stay far enough away that their presence is relatively untraceable. They are fugitives, no matter how far they travel, the fact will not change.

It is almost too much to look at Anders, profile shadowed by the orange glow of the fire. She feels sick—not in the expected way, but in a way that makes her heart ache along with her stomach.

The feeling only worsens when Anders turns his amber gaze to meet hers, slight confusion in the lift of his brow.

“Cold, huh?” She says, stupidly.

*

They are back with the rebels when he realizes what exactly is happening.

He was stationed on watch, Marian sleeping lightly inside the lamplit comfort of a canvas tent.

Gently but with purpose, he shakes her from her haze. The furs and soft linens that she bundled herself under earlier in the night fall away as she sits up, too quick, leaving her exposed to the winter air.

“You’re pregnant.” He says, still gripping her shoulder so tightly that it hurts. The words come out sounding like a question and a statement simultaneously.

“I might be.” She admits, clinging onto the last thread of denial.  

“What will we do?” Always the anxious one, Anders.

“I don’t know.”

“Alright.” He says, in a tone that suggests that it is not alright.

He’s pale—paler than usual, hands shaking lightly as he sits down on the furs beside her.

“Were you going to tell me?”

“I suppose I would’ve had to, at some point.”

“You suppose.”

*

The progression of the birth takes hours, and the pain only increases by the second. She has faced demons, mercenaries sent to kill her, slavers, and the Arishok; yet, this somehow hurts more than any blow she has ever been dealt.

When the pressure finally eases in a frightening instant, when the high-pitched wails of a new infant start to fill the tent; she allows her head to thump back against the bedroll, unable to fight exhaustion for another instant.

*

When she wakes, there is an uncomfortably cold rag being pressed to her brow. It is not Anders who is administering the simple remedy, but one of the healers who volunteered to assist with the birth. She is a human woman of maybe fifty years, with a soft face and greying hair styled in a simple plait. Her eyes soften when she notices Marian’s stirring.

“Where is he?” She croaks, the only words she can muster.

“Not a _he;_ it’s a little girl.” Marian stares in confusion for a few moments before coming to the realization that the woman must’ve thought she was inquiring on the whereabouts of the infant.

“Anders.” She reiterates, trying to sit up but finding herself gently pushed back by the pseudo-nursemaid. “Where is he?”

The woman touches the back of Marian’s hand with a kind of compassion that she hasn’t felt since Leandra died.

“I’ll send for him.” She says, offering an expression that could be classed as a smile, without the happiness.

*

The sight of Anders entering the tent with an armful of blankets; knowing that a baby— _her_ baby was bundled in them, was not something that she prepared herself for at any point. He comes to sit beside her, where the woman sat just moments earlier.

“Would you like to hold her?” He asks, carefully.

Anders has delivered babies before, it was one of the most common feats that he performed in Darktown. He had practice with this sort of thing, and it showed in his bedside manner. She wonders, distantly, if he’d be a good father.

Despite every fiber of her body finding the notion a terrible idea, she says yes.

Marian has held infants in passing before. Never like this.

The weight of the tiny body is warm in her arms, before she can stop herself, she presses her face to the top of the child’s head, inhaling deeply.

 

*

She’s agreed to meet Aveline in a tavern outside of Wildervale. The meeting is to be brief, straight to the point.

The ride for the Free Marches is neither long nor difficult. The presence of the tiny human swaddled against her chest is starkly apparent. She can think of little else. The occasional cry, or sound of displeasure at the rhythm of the horse’s gait. The possibility of ambush or attack is still as viable as it ever was; she doubts that a group of bandits will care much that she has a baby with her. The realization that she likely may never see the child again was harder to accept than she ever could have thought.

The decision to ride out alone was one that garnered objection and argument, but she was always good at convincing others to let things go her way. If they were caught, if they were ambushed, she could not lose Anders as well as their child.

The sun is cresting over the horizon when she finally reaches the small town, the early stirrings of a new day just starting. She prays to Andraste (a god in whom she does not believe) that no one will recognize her here.

She dismounts from her horse and ties the reins to a tree on the very edge of the settlement, offering a gentle stroke to the mare’s nose and a whispered reassurance that _she will be back soon._

Unwinding her cloak, she lets the bundle of swaddling cloth and old linen tip back into her arms. The baby is gazing up at her lazily, eyes stunningly blue.

Here, in this miniscule town with her hood pulled over half of her face, she must look like any other mother travelling with an infant. The Dalish have allegedly done it since the dawn of their culture’s existence, and she wonders with a twinge of amusement if she should’ve written Merrill instead.

She allows herself these quiet, pre-morning moments. She allows herself to catalog every feature of the baby in her arms. It is unlike her to kiss the soft forehead, yet she does it anyway (it is also unlike her to feel tears welling up in her eyes as she does this).

 _“Is this how mother felt_?” She asks herself.

*

She stands there for what feels like hours, until she catches a glimpse of fire-red hair entering the tavern across the way. The townspeople have began mulling about, starting their daily chores. They do not pay Marian any mind, as if she is invisible to them.

The building smells of old ale and smoke, for a brief second, she is twenty once again, lounging in _The Hanged Man_ ; bright, and sarcastic, and playfully flirting with the healer from Darktown.

However, this is not The Hanged Man, and she is not that girl any longer.

She spots Aveline at a table at the far corner of the room, back to the door. She is not in her full armor, but in simple civilian garments; her brilliant hair has been cut short, yet her identity is still crystal clear. Even from behind, with all the changes, this is undoubtedly Aveline.

*

When Marian sits down across from her, she isn’t sure what to say.

“Thank you.” Is what she decides on.

They don’t talk about her whereabouts, they simply can’t. Aveline would be obliged to arrest her if she made the admission.

Instead of expecting small talk, she frees the bundle from the confines of her cloak once again. Aveline glances over her shoulder to make sure that the barkeep isn’t eyeing them, though it would hardly matter if he was.

“We haven’t named it, I thought we should leave that up to you.” Marian says, not lifting her gaze from the child’s face.

When they do make eye contact, Aveline nods once, a deliberate movement of her head.

“You and Donnic… You’ll be good. You’re better fitted than anyone else I know.”

“Better than Fenris?”

Despite the situation, Marian laughs a bit because this is Aveline. This is her friend, her dearest friend, Aveline.

*

They leave the tavern together.

When it cannot be postponed any longer; Marian passes the bundle to Aveline, who is fighting off some emotion of her own as she feels the weight of the baby— _her_ baby, for the very first time.

Marian is smiling, watery and a bit sad, but there is joy underneath the initial sense of loss.

“Thank you, Aveline.” She says, once more.

*

She watches Aveline ride off until her shape is covered by the mountains. When she is alone, she reenters the quaint tavern and orders herself a pint of mead before heading back out herself.

*

Years later, she receives an invitation.

Kirkwall has healed itself and come back from her mistakes better than anyone could’ve hoped. With Varric as Viscount, the entire city is thriving.

The letter is a surprise, when it comes. It is simple, and straight to the point. She is to travel to the home of her dearest friend, where she will meet her family, and stay for a few nights.

When she arrives, she is greeted by a girl of perhaps six years; with a dark blonde mop of curls and stunningly blue eyes. The girl waves to her from a distance as she approaches, and then calls back into the house for the other residents to come out.

Aveline emerges from the doorway, hair now grown out to touch her shoulders. Donnic is right behind her, and a Mabari hound squeezes out last and bounds to greet Marian with its stubby tail wagging.

“Are you Mama’s friend?” The girl asks, looking up at Marian with a mix of wonder and excitement on her face. “She says she knew the Champion when she was younger. Are you her?”

Realization hits Marian like a druffalo, and she has to remind herself to breathe. She is about to answer the girl when Aveline cuts in.

“Now, Bethany, she just arrived. We can bombard her with questions after lunch.”

“Bethany?” Marian says the name carefully, like she didn’t hear correctly.

Aveline nods and lets out a sound of surprise when Marian embraces her with all the strength she has left.

*

 

 


End file.
